0001

THE LATE DEAN MANSEL.

At both morning and evening services on Sunday at St. Paul's Cathedral, London, references were made to the recent sudden death of Dean Mansel.

In the morning the Bishop of London founding upon it a sermon on the necessity of dilligent preparation for the future state, dwelt rather upon the suddenness of the decease than on the life and work of the late Dean.

In the afternoon Canon Liddon preached under the dome to a congregation numbering several thousands and spoke at length on his late friend's character and writings. Taking for his text John ix., verse 4, “I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is day; the night cometh when no man can work,” he said, after some preliminary observations—

Dean Mansel was gifted with an intellect of exceptional power—an intellect of that particular type and quality which is more commonly found among gifted men of Scotch or German blood than amongst Englishmen. Dean Mansel was born a metaphysician; when a young man he became conspicuous for his ability; he had a marvellous capacity for abstract thought; he was decorated with the highest academical honours, and his acquaintance was always eagerly sought after by men of letters. In later years he became the ablest exponent of the continuity of mind of Sir William Hamilton. He completed, in some respects what that distinguished man began; and he held until his death a unique position in the world of mental science, required, it is needless to say, by immense labour of the brain. His great powers were always consecrated to the service of God. He had, as a young man, no idea—and he (Canon Liddon) had reason for saying so—of any high position in the Church—he had no future before his mind's eye, but that of an academic student and teacher. When he first brought his clear and powerful intellect to the task of determining the real relation which subsists between the natural powers of human thought and the contents of the Christian revelation, the fruit of his study was seen in the most celebrated work of his life—a work which had always held a remarkable place in English philosophy and English divinity—his “Bampton Lectures on the Limit of Religious Thought.” In that book he did not profess to furnish any direct proof of the truth of Christian revelation—he merely insisted that reason, when cross-examined, was bound in her own terms, and in her own interest, to make room for revelation.

0002

The constant effort of reason, especially when engaged in making war on revelation, was to claim to occupy the whole field of possible religious thought and faith—to have a word, whether of approval or disapproval, to utter upon every proposition which, upon whatever authority, could come before it. It was this claim which Dean Mansel disputed. Basing himself upon a celebrated paper of Sir William Hamilton, on the philosophy of the Unconditioned, he showed by a subtle and vigorous analysis that the human mind could not of itself attain to any positive conception of the nature of an absolute and infinite Being; that the very fundamental laws of our mental consciousness, when closely examined, prevented it; and that, therefore, beyond the region in which religion could reign without exaggerating her powers, there was a sphere of thought open to the human mind, and legitimately occupied by a revelation which could be shown to rest upon sufficient evidence of Divine authority. Of the worth of that evidence reason was the proper judge; but reason could not, considering the limits within which she worked, criticise what was the subject matter of revelation itself, without being false to a really philosophical estimate of her own powers, as well as without risk of serious religious disaster. It was inevitable that an argument which insisted upon the demonstrable impotence of thought should arouse the jealousy of professional thinkers. They had passionately exclaimed that the lecturer was defending orthodoxy by atheistic arguments; they insisted too hastily that if God could not be known as He is, He could not be known at all; they refused to examine with sufficient patience and sympathy the lecturer's characteristic doctrine of regulative truth—that although we cannot know perfectly what God is in Himself, we can know from analogies and approximately what He is. They turn a deaf ear to the long line of authorities, ancient and modern, who had virtually accepted the doctrine which they assailed as a novel and inward heresy. They raised the cry that the lecturer taught two moralities—a divine and a human—and that he had virtually extended the existence of an absolute and incontestable right and wrong. Certainly, he did teach that, for instance, although justice was in itself ever the same, yet that the Creator as such must have rights which made it impossible for us to apply to His dealings with His creatures that particular and restricted notion of justice which belonged to dealings between man and man; but that was merely to show that the Creator was not the creature, that the source of all existence could not so divest Himself of His necessary relation to His creatures as to cease to be Himself; that as we did not know God as He was, we could not lay down any rules for His conduct, and practically assume that we knew all about Him. The Bampton Lectures, although the most considerable of the late Dean's works, was only one of the many efforts of his pen. He worked hard to the very last, and died in harness. His time, latterly, was chiefly devoted to the interpretation of Scripture; he was actively engaged on the “Speaker's Commentary,” and only a few days before he left London he told him (the preacher) that he believed he was able to answer thoroughly certain objections which had been raised against the Gospel of St. John. He lived in hopes of seeing the cathedral completed and restored, but death snatched him away in the most sudden manner. It came to him one short week ago, in the fulness, as it seemed, of his mental strength. Only last Sunday he took his part in the morning and afternoon services of the Church. At that very hour he was to all appearance in his usual health, and there was not strain which, humanly speaking, was likely to distract him. He retired to rest after making arrangements for coming to town by an early train on Monday morning. One short minute, however, and all was over. There was no time for anything that could be called a death-struggle—death must have been instantaneous. A blood-vessel had given way at the base of the brain—there was a single sigh, and he had passed away! Sudden death reminded men of the true terms of tenure by which they held their earthly existence; they were but mere tenants-at-will, their master being able to disposses them at any moment. The death of Dr. Mansel could not have taken him by surprise, for he was continually dwelling on the thought of separation from earth, and only last month, after reading the burial service in that Cathedral over the body of Mrs. Milman, he wondered whose turn it would be next, adding that they were all in God's care. On another occasion he expressed an opinion that sudden death was a merciful and blessed manner of passing away, and he invariably regarded death calmly, earnestly, and contently. Whereas as an intellectual giant he was always ready to combat the strongest forms of a modern infidelity, yet he was content to kneel before his Master in the most perfect and child-like trust and faith. The lesson of his life was that he made the most of his work in the time that God allowed to him, and that when the night came—although suddenly—he was found prepared to meet his Saviour.

After the sermon, during the delivery of which the Canon was at times visibly affected, the hymn commencing “A few more years shall roll” was sung by the congregation. The “Dead March” in Saul was played by Mr. Goss upon the organ afterwards.